


Impact

by MnemonicMadness



Series: Fallen [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit sappy, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Can be read as stand-alone, Demiromantic Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, More angst, My idea of a happy end, No Mary, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Stream of Consciousness, there's a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: “I'd be lost without my blogger.” When I said this to you, I had no idea how true it would turn out to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the first part that's fine, though of course I still hope that you will, it's pretty short. Either way, I hope you'll enjoy this one!

I was wrong.

Granted, I have to admit that I have been wrong before, despite my superior mind I am only human, as you are so fond of reminding me, and after all, _errare humanum est_. And over the course of my life I have been wrong about many things. I was wrong to be afraid of Redbeard the first time I saw him. I was wrong to try heroin after successfully disciplining my restless mind with cocaine, wrong to try and overdose (Had I succeeded in that, I would have never met you. I don't want to contemplate what would've become of you if we hadn't met. I am arrogant enough to know that I saved you, then again, a lack of arrogance has certainly never been my problem.)

I was wrong to underestimate Moriarty, this is one mistake I regret dearly.

(I always assumed that I am a sociopath, but since one of the key symptoms of antisocial personality disorder is the lack of capacity for remorse, perhaps I have been wrong about this too. You always thought so, and I always did care about you, loath to admit it I may be, but it is quite obvious, undeniably so. Or perhaps you are merely my proverbial exception to the rule.)

It has almost been three years now since I've last spoken to you, the real you at least. Almost an entire wing of my mind palace is reserved for you, for my life with you, by now. Every look you've directed at me, every conversations we had, every hideous jumper you own, down to the very last detail.

And _you_ , of course. Or at least my mental representation of you, right where you belong, in my imaginary reconstruction of 221B.

A tired chuckle escapes my lips. Even without being physically present (for far too long), you still managed to help me, to keep me sane and from doing something stupid.

There was that one time in a backwater village in Moldavia, when I finally gave in, two and a half years ago by now, and resorted back to my old and proven comfort, my longed-for seven-per-cent solution. The moment I'd made the purchase, I had known it was wrong to do so. I was fully aware of it when I prepared the white substance, conscious my mistake when the needle finally pierced the soft, white skin of my arm, leaving just one more among the countless marks left behind from darker days. Except, if I am honest, those days were nothing compared to the last three years.

At some point (Oh, who am I kidding? I have long since pinpointed the instant in time when this started.) I have stopped thinking of my life in years and begun to divide it into ' _Before John_ ', ' _With John_ ' and ' _After John_ '. And for three years, I have wanted nothing more than to end ' _After John_ ', to go back to you and stop the persistent pain in my chest that has been ever present since I jumped from St. Bart's. It's a curious thing, that pain. I am intimately acquainted with the depression of boredom, I know the heat of anger, the weight of sadness and even the cold, colour-leaching sensation of loneliness, but the pain of living in ' _After John_ ' is somehow all and none of those. It burns inside me, yet I feel as if I am freezing to death, inch by inch. It lies heavy like a stone on my ribcage, making it hard to breathe, and the world seems too loud and raw while all colour is drained away. The only thing worse than this, is the knowledge that with great likelihood, I have caused you to feel the same, _am_ causing you this with every second I let you remain ignorant of my continued existence.

It is said that time heals all wounds (Though I have deleted from whom I have heard this. They were wrong anyway.) so I waited, yet this particular one seems to have gotten infected and so it has only worsened. After six months of hearing the echoes of you wishing, _begging_ me for just _one more miracle_ while I stood by and watched, knowing that I could give you that miracle by literally taking just a few steps and yet at the same time being unable to do so any more than I could have had I actually been dead, I could not help but give in to the constant, low-key craving in the back of my mind, to focus and lock those feelings and words away.

As soon as I'd come down from my high, I had thrown the leftover cocaine away. Instead of aiding me in regaining my control, your voice as I've last heard it, shaking with suppressed tears, had been all I could hear. You were miles away, unaware of my weakness and yet it appeared as though I could feel your disappointment in me. During the (blessedly mild) withdrawal Mind-Palace-John wouldn't speak to me, to my great frustration (even as a figment of my not inconsiderable imagination you never cease to puzzle me).

That mistake had cost me a lead and subsequently weeks of finding another one. Weeks I spent apart from you that could've been avoided, and that is my real failure, isn't it? And I am sorry about this, John, perhaps more than you'll ever know. Had I kept taking the drug, the withdrawal and therefore those weeks would possibly not have been necessary, but re-developing my dependence on a chemical would have been a great risk, one I was, and never would be, willing to take, not with your life on the line. Failure was not an option.

You never have to know about my moment of weakness, but I think I would like to tell you anyway, some day. Provided that you'll allow me back into your life.

It is that _if_ that makes my stomach turn. Because what if I'll have to go on living in the ' _After John_ ' indefinitely? All that I've done and all that was done to me during these last three years would still be worth it, I have no doubt about that. Anything is worth the knowledge that you're alive and safe, I cannot think of any price I wouldn't be willing pay for this and what I have endured seems small in comparison, yet I can't deny that I would go through it all ten times over if that meant a guarantee of your forgiveness, of being allowed to regain ' _With John_ '.

The truth is that I miss you. Terribly. Thinking myself incapable of missing someone has turned out to be yet another thing I was wrong about. I miss your compliments whenever I show off my deductions, I miss your questions that go such a long way to focus my mind, I miss your nagging about the necessity of healthy nutrition or even cleaning the kitchen, I miss your tea (I still haven't been able to figure out why I can't replicate the taste it has when you make it. I have resigned to attribute this to the John-Watson-Effect, a yet unknown factor involving you that somehow makes things better.), the smell of your ugly jumpers, your presence that I had somehow started to take for granted. During the first eight months of my journey I kept finding myself talking out loud to you and turning around to see your reaction, only to find that you were not at my side (Where you belong!). Without me realising it, you have somehow become an equivalent to safety and without you I feel exposed and vulnerable. Even now that my mission is finally complete, that even the smallest shred of Moriarty's web is dismantled, I feel the urge to turn my head to see if I am being watched. I listen for any unfamiliar steps approaching so I won't be surprised by an attack.

“ _I'd be lost without my blogger.”_ When I said this to you, I had no idea how true it would turn out to be.

The scars on my back burn at the memory of their creation. I got careless in Serbia during the second year (Stupid. It cost me even more time and I am so sorry...) and they caught me snooping around in one of their warehouses they used for transshipment. They had me for nearly three weeks (19 days, 23 hours and 4 minutes) before I could finally escape, interrogating me for most of that time. When I finally ran, I hadn't slept in five of those days, which is a stretch even for me, hadn't eaten for even longer and the skin of my back was in shreds, with the addition of the complimentary blood loss such a condition involves, three broken ribs and many more less severe injuries. I was tempted to lie down and let myself die, to allow the opportunity to slip by unused and instead retreat into your wing of the mind palace, blocking out all signals from my body, but the moment I saw your face I knew I wouldn't. Couldn't. Because my giving up would have meant that Moran would eventually have found out that I had lived some time beyond my fall. My death would have meant yours and that is unacceptable, because without you, I'd be truly lost, I can finally admit that to myself now. Torture has turned out to be surprisingly conductive to soul-searching (I wonder if one can have a soul without a heart.).

I saw you once, during that second year. After I had escaped from my captors in Serbia and grudgingly spent a few days laying low to ensure they wouldn't find me again and give even the deeper ones of my lacerations the time to at least scab, then spent a few more days to take out whoever survived my escape (Allowing them to live would have meant to risk word of my continued existence getting out, to risk _you_ . I knew you wouldn't want me to kill but I couldn't just... I will never be even the smallest fraction as good a person as you are, if I needed any further proof of that, the last three years would be more than sufficient.), my next lead led me to Nice, from there to Dublin and then back to London. Back home. Except, and I should have realised this a long time ago, _London_ , my city, is no longer my home, hasn't been ever since a bullet killed a taxi driver from the next building over, since you called my deductions _“Amazing.”_ , since I heard the irregular footsteps of an invalided army doctor echoing through the morgue.

After I took out the London branch of Moriarty's web, I couldn't resist the temptation to track you down, to have just one glimpse of you to help me keep going, so I dyed my hair and the beard I didn't have time to shave blonde ( I found that blonde hair really doesn't suit me and neither does a beard) and spent hours on make-up to disguise my rather distinctive cheekbones. Probably not even Muffin-croft would've recognised me. I saw you when you were on your way home from the hospital (tired, exhausted, 2 surgeries with one survivor and one dead, you lost approximately 14 pounds since I had last seen you, you had an argument with a nurse), I hid in an alleyway and watched you walk by, just a few metres away. You were limping again, even using a cane despite obviously being frustrated at having to do so and each unsteady step you took felt like knife to my chest because all I had to do to make it better, to fix you, was walk out of that stupidly dark alleyway, or even just call out to you. (I had to bite down on my fist and hold onto a dustbin until you were out of my line of sight and a few minutes more to keep myself from doing just that.) But I got my wish (even if I could not grant you yours), it was that image of you, grief practically radiating from your posture and yet you still kept going (My John. My brave John. I knew this wouldn't break you, I have not been wrong about this.), that made me get up after I was shot in Seoul, broke my ankle in Cienfuegos, nearly drowned in Mudjimba.

I smile at the memories, not of the pain, but of the places. The world has a lot of beauty to offer and I foolishly hope that, if you allow me back into your life (Please. I need you.), one day I may get to show them to you. The national park of Vinales with its rainforest-covered mountains and caves, the bustling streets of Lisbon and Rome, the stark contrast between new and old in Hamburg, the arid heat and red dust of Alice Springs, the myriad of islands on the coasts of Sweden. Venice.

But I would trade every single moment of awe at the world's beauty in a heartbeat for one of sitting in our living room with you. Home. After all, home is where the heart is.

Can one survive without a heart? A thin sheen of cold sweat covers my palms. Being nervous is something I am not accustomed to. Shouldn't I be happy, after all I will see you again soon, yet here I am, afraid of your rejection. Not, that it isn't within your right after all I have done to you, the pain I caused (I am sorry.), far from it, but I cannot bear the thought. A part of me wants to hate you for this, for causing me to depend on you.

The grey evening light falling through the opaque window seems colder in comparison to the warm lights of the posh bathroom in the posh hotel Mycroft is paying for. (You would have laughed and good-naturedly berated me for my childishness when I ordered a double of every last item I could order from the horrendously overpriced room service and strangely it's the thought of _your_ reaction, not my brother's, that finally lifts my spirits and makes me smirk.) I am still wet from the first thorough shower I've had in three years and I run my fingers through my damp hair for a moment, enjoying the feel of it finally having an acceptable length again after having it cut this morning, then I take a towel to wipe the condensed water from the mirror, before I can finally, once and for all, get rid of that stupid beard.

Once the sink is a mess but my face smooth and clean again, I leave the bathroom to get dressed, the custom tailored suit and the expensive materials feel foreign against my skin. The trousers are a bit too loose as I have lost weight again and I can feel Mind-Palace-John's disapproval at how much my ribs protrude underneath my too white skin, marred with colourful bruises in various stages of healing. When I finally turn around to face the full-length mirror, I look almost like my old self again. Almost, but not quite. I am even paler than I used to be, a result of my anaemia due to three years of improper nourishment, my lips are dry and chapped, my cheeks sunken and there are dark circles underneath my eyes. Even I have to admit that I look unhealthy, downright sickly, now that my face is no longer hidden by unkempt hair and beard. _Just transport._

I turn around and grab my Belstaff (I missed that coat.), there's no reason to linger, yet I hesitate. Three years I have waited for today, to see you again, but now that that moment is within my grasp, I find myself afraid, wanting to run and disappear back into the shadows. I shake my head forcefully, trying to clear my mind of the countless 'what-ifs' circling around, spinning out of control and oh how I long for the sweet relief of a cocaine high right now. As much as I hate to admit so, Meddle-croft wasn't entirely wrong about the dangers of _sentiment_. Only one way to find out which one of the myriad of possible scenarios upon my return will play out, so I grab my coat and whirl it around with more force than necessary, despite no one being around to witness the theatrical gesture. Its weight is familiar as it settles onto my shoulders despite hanging from my frame more loosely than it should.

I pocket my wallet and the hotel room's key-card (I don't like the odds of having to come back here at least temporarily until, if I'm lucky, you welcome me back in our flat, but I still hope I won't have to. Please John. Please take me back. I miss you. I need you. I lo...) and leave without glancing back, my strides long and confident, neither body nor face betraying the turmoil of emotions inside me. Despite not having slept for days, there is a pent up energy in my muscles and instead of taking the lift I run down the stairs. The woman at the reception (recently left... no, been left by her boyfriend, two cats, one black and white and the other brown, gluten intolerant, will go to the hairdresser tomorrow, had spaghetti for lunch) gives me a bewildered look as I rush past her onto the street. Once outside, I have to walk to the next corner until there's finally an empty cab.

The driver has barely stopped before I rip the door open and sit down. I could still back out, name a random location and avoid facing you.

“221B, Baker Street.” My voice sounds satisfyingly confident.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment, I'm always ridiculously happy about any kind of feedback! I'll post chapter two next week.


	2. Chapter 2

The cabbie (happily married, one child and another on the way, was almost late for his shift this morning and nicked himself while shaving, trying to quit smoking) nods and drives off. I ignore his attempts at small-talk until he is finally quiet and I can _think_. Again and again, I go over what I am going to say to you, different words for each possible reaction. Outside, my city passes by, but just like at my arrival here yesterday, I barely register it. I'm still not used to the thought that it's over, that you're safe, that I'm safe, except I know that I won't feel safe until I'm with you, until I see you alive and breathing in front of me, see the warmth in your gentle, blue eyes. Love.

When I fell, I wished you could stop loving me, wished you'd never loved me in the first place so you'd get over my 'death' quickly, but now I dread that wish coming true. Not, that I'd experience heartbreak, no, I have already broken my heart three years ago

No. Wrong. I refuse to believe that you're broken, that _I broke you_. You are strong, stronger than most people assume, which is also the reason you make a formidable opponent in battle. People underestimate you, even I did when I first saw you (I never would have guessed how much you'd come to mean to me) and so did Moriarty. My death would never have been enough, you might be (Have been? Please, John, I...) in love with me, but surely I couldn't be that important to you.

No, you weren't broken when I saw you during my second year. Hurt, but not broken. You are fine. I have calculated that with a chance of 78%, your most likely reaction to my return will be to punch me in the face. You are a soldier after all.

The cab slows down as it turns into Baker Street and for the first time in nearly three years, I catch sight of the familiar, dark, cast-iron fence in front of the painted white façades, _Speedy's_ red canopy further down the street, the colour a little more faded than when I've last seen it and beyond that, almost hidden by the crimson cloth, I catch the first glimpse of the dark, wooden door of 221b. (Home. Where John is.) There is still time for me to turn around, to tell the cabbie to keep driving, go back to the hotel or the airport and leave, so I won't have to face you, face this.

Good things, I have found, especially when long anticipated, can be more overwhelming, more difficult to accept and embrace and find peace in, that the greatest misfortune. And never have I anticipated anything more than this. I will not run. I am not a coward. And although I find myself taking a deep breath and opening my mouth, the words do not leave it and so the cab pulls up and comes to a halt. It is darker now, close to sunset, and the sky is as grey as ever, yet what little light catches in the brazen numbers on the door seems like a beacon, drawing me in like a moth to the flame (to you), instinctively and irresistible.

On some level, I am aware that the cabbie is speaking to me, naming the fare and asking “You alright there, lad?” when it takes me too long to react. I nod absentmindedly and take several notes from my wallet, opening the door the moment the paper touches his fingers. “Keep the change.” It is not my money anyway, not that I'd particularly care if it was.

A moment of shocked silence, then muttered phrases of gratitude that are finally cut off when I slam the door shut with more force than strictly necessary. (You would have given me a look of mild exasperation for this, and the thought that maybe, just maybe, if I get this right for once, I will not have to think in terms of _would have_ for much longer, sends an unexpected stab of longing through my chest. I miss that look. Miss you.)

At once, my senses are practically assaulted with familiarity, smells and sights stored away in dusty boxes in my mind-palace, almost but not quite forgotten, irrelevant deductions drawn from them an almost soothing white noise. I am back.

I angle for the keys Mycroft had made for me and find them quickly, but to my surprise, it takes me a few seconds to unlock the door. My hand tremors slightly and giving it an angry glare doesn't help. Bloody transport. The lock clicks. The hallway smells of dust and tea and Mrs. Hudson's home-cooked meals.

According to my dearest brother (or, more likely, his minions), she is off, countryside to visit her sister. You should be home by now, despite your new-found habit of working an outrageous number of overtime hours, unpaid at that. (Fat-croft called it _unhealthy_. I refuse to interpret too much into this. Or anything at all.) I spend a second wondering how she'll take the news of my continued existence before I am back to visualising scenarios, planning what I will say to you. My mind is a kaleidoscope of images, a network of different possibilities and variables as I slowly, near soundlessly ascend the 17 stairs. I cannot quite avoid the familiar creak of number 8 and the sound gives me an unreasonable amount of comfort.

Once I have reached the end of the staircase, I hesitate again, nearly overcome by the urge to flee. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, making my still sore ribs twinge. You have invaded Afghanistan, I can bloody well open a door. (One with you on the other side. Whole and healthy and safe. My home.)

I turn the key and feel like I did in the moment I stepped of the roof of St. Bart's. I suppose there are certain parallels. A leap of faith.

The flat (our flat) looks almost like I left it, merely cleaner and tidier, yet it seems different. Despite all the useless clutter I have accumulated over time still being present, as far as I can see, the flat feels almost clinical, not lived in, dead. Too little has changed for three years having passed. Everything is in almost the exact same place as I left it, only having moved for the occasional dusting, the sole true exception being the equipment for my experiments on our now empty kitchen table. It's more akin to standing in a museum than a lived in space, a _home_. Somewhere in the back of my mind a suspicion starts to form (a bad suspicion), deductions begging for my attention, but I forcefully shove them away (because no, please, I didn't... John...).

It smells like tea, wool, chemicals and dust. Bow rosin and gun oil and something distinctively _you_. A moment ago, I wanted to run, but now I cannot imagine ever leaving this place. (Please, John. Please take me back. Allow me to stay, and I will never leave you again. I'll be better, become someone who could one day deserve you, just please let me come home.)

Finally, a noise diverts my attention from the smell, and for a moment, that noise (shuffle of unsteady steps on creaky floorboards) becomes my entire world, because you are here. (Stupid. I knew you were here. Where else would you be? But still...) There is sweat on my hands and they won't stop trembling even when I clench an unclench them repeatedly. Another creak, then the soft click of a door opening, your bedroom door, and finally the more hollow sound of the stairs. I feel... torn. The front door seems to be calling to me and it would be oh so easy to leave again, as quietly as I came. You would be none the wiser, would never know that I was here, alive. Another part of me cannot wait anymore, urges me to run towards the stairs and... What then? My feet are rooted to the spot I am standing in right now while once again, variables shift and possibilities play out in my mind-palace.

More steps. It's too late now, if I was going to run, I have missed my opportunity. (I can't run, can't leave you behind again.) My mind is sluggish when I ground myself into reality, after all, thinking of hypothetical scenarios is pointless by now, but I manage to convince my body to heed my brain's commands and turn around, towards where I will see you within a few seconds, my gaze sliding past the windows and wallpaper, over the mantelpiece and...

No.

No no no nononono. Wrong.

This shouldn't... I didn't...

No.

Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. My mind must be playing tricks on me.

You didn't...

_I was wrong._

Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_ After the last three years (more than that, ever since meeting you) I should know better than to underestimate the dangers of sentiment. But I saw you, almost a year and a half ago, and you were alright. I want to pull my hair in frustration but my body is frozen in place, my limbs refuse to budge, I can't even close my eyes or look away. Doing so would help little anyway. The image is already seared into my mind, undeniable proof of my failure.

I have made my living by following the evidence, relentlessly, wherever it may take me, so my mind follows this image to its only logical conclusion. A notepad with several papers forcefully ripped from it, the ragged edges still attached to the top. A pen. A single bullet. The drawer beneath isn't closed properly and I know without walking over and looking into it, that your gun is inside. The light falls in an angle that makes it possible for me to see (though not read) the lines in the remaining papers, from where you put too much pressure on the pen.

Whatever you've been trying to write (A note. I don't want to accept this reality, but I know you were trying to write a note because _it's what people do, don't they?_ ), you were angry. The paper is corrugated in a few (mostly round-ish) spots, from drops of moisture. I ignore the deduction regarding the origin and nature of that liquid.

Because you were alright when I saw you! You were sad, but not broken. (Burned. _I'll burn the heart out of you._ ) But I was wrong, wasn't I? Once again, like all those years ago in the morgue, I underestimated you. You had everyone, including me, fooled.

With that deduction comes the realisation what date today is. Five more days, and I would've been gone for exactly three years. If I had hesitated for five more days, if I had turned around on the doorstep or given the cabbie the wrong address...

_Oh god, no._

A loud noise from behind tears me out of my contemplations and I cannot deny that I'm almost grateful for this. The noise belongs to the shattering of a mug and startled, I spin around.

_John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Any kind of feedback is always helpful and greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I completely forgot to post this.

You stand there, frozen in shock, eyes almost comically widened and hand still raised where you carried the now shattered mug. For a few seconds (Hours?) neither of us moves, the only noise in this room is our breathing and the traffic outside, though I can't hear either of those things, the sound of my rapid heartbeat drowns them out as my bright, grey-blue eyes are fixed onto your darker ones.

Then you... laugh?

Usually, I would've made some wisecrack, but I can still only stare. Your laugh couldn't be further from your (secretly cherished) breathy post-case giggles, or the one I've heard you make when Lestrade tells you yet another admittedly embarrassing story about me over a pint. This laugh isn't even close to happy or joyful (as it should be!). It's a jarring sound, too high-pitched, hollow and slightly manic, your eyes are still wide open and wetter than usual, you don't seem to stop laughing even as your breath turns shallower.

You have lost even more weight since I've last seen you, the circles underneath your eyes are so deep they almost seem black, your left hand is trembling even while clutching your blasted cane and despite your slumped posture, I can see that your muscles are tense with chronic (if psychosomatic) pain and stress.

There is no doubt left regarding my deduction of the purpose of that notebook and the single bullet and that certainty physically _hurts_.

Finally, your hysterical laughter dies down and you stare at me, slightly breathless, shaking your head. When you finally speak, your voice is tired and rougher than I remember.

“Okay then. That's it. I've finally lost it. I've officially gone completely bonkers.”

Another laugh, smaller, almost a giggle but just as hollow and mad. You shake your head and blink several times, stare for another few seconds, blink again. And finally the penny drops. You think you're hallucinating, that I'm not actually real. I'm sure I have considered this possibility earlier, but my mind (frustratingly) cannot seem to process anything beyond the present moment.

My mouth opens, but it takes several attempts, until I finally manage to croak out: “John.”

You pointedly look away from me, descend the remaining two steps and bend over to slowly, carefully pick up the biggest shards of the broken mug, muttering something to yourself too quietly for me to understand. I know your reason for doing so, but I find that I still highly dislike you ignoring me. Not that I can really fault you for that, given the present situation.

When I try this time, my voice somewhat steadier. “John, I... Please... I... You...”

I can perfectly imagine Mean-croft's condescending voice saying _The building of complete sentences in the English language is really not that difficult a concept, brother dear._

You're coming closer, intent on disposing of the shards in the kitchen, still ignoring me strainedly and for once I act on instinct, no rational thought in sight. You are only one step away from me when my body finally moves again. Without my conscious decision, my arm shoots forward and I grab yours, regretting not having removed my leather gloves as only a minimum of warmth seeps through where it covers my hand clinging to your hideous (perfect) jumper.

Again, you freeze. Both of us do, this time, both of us caught up in staring at that single point of contact between us. The noise you make (or was it me?) sounds barely human, inarticulate and wounded. My gaze shoots upwards and I helplessly watch your eyes fill with tears, disbelief warring with relief and anger and a few other expressions I cannot identify on your face.

It occurs to me that this is the moment where I should say something. Anything.

This is worse than falling from that rooftop, though I suppose it makes sense, in a way. I've only been _falling_ the last few years. Falling is harmless, it's the impact that kills you, ruptures your organs and shatters your bones. It's only now that I'm seeing the ground rushing towards me, know that I'll hit it any second now. (Unless you catch me. If you'd only catch me, I'd finally be safe. Unharmed. But I can't _think_ , I have no idea how likely this scenario would be.) (After seeing the mantelpiece with the paper and bullet on top, whether I would deserve it is an entirely different matter.)

From one split-second to another, you decide. Your face settles on anger, I can see you ball your fist and raise your arm, I _could_ stop you, this is a clumsy blow and there is more than enough time to block it. My own arm twitches by instinct, but I force it to remain uselessly at my side. I deserve this. _You_ deserve this.

The blow's execution may be clumsy, but it does carry the force of Captain John H. Watson's balled fury. You don't avoid my cheekbone this time and I can feel a drop of warm liquid running down my face. You must've split the skin. For a moment I sway, dizzy, but soon I lose the battle against gravity and fall to my knees, only then the pain registers. Some part of my mind sees it fit to remark amusedly how well suited my earlier impact-analogy was. My knees hurt. You've let the mug's shards drop at some point without me noticing and now the sharp edges of the broken ceramic are digging into my knees.

When after a few seconds I finally manage to look up to you, you seem startled by your own action. The anger is gone, left are relief, incredulity and something warm. Your eyes are red, your lashed clumped together by fluid and finally, something in me _breaks_ (shattered by the impact on cold, unforgiving pavement). Tears are streaming down my face now and I don't even notice that I am speaking until my own voice, teary and shaking, reaches my ears.

“I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. Please. Please, John. I'm sorry. Please...”

Sherlock Holmes doesn't beg, yet here I am and I don't even know what it is I am begging for.

“ _Sherlock._ ”, you whisper.

Apparently, _you_ do know. You don't give the shards a second's thought before dropping to your knees yourself, bringing you level to where I'm still (pathetically) sobbing in front of you. Unbidden, my hands reach out to grasp at your jumper like a child and finally, _finally_ you lean in and pull me closer, wrap your arms around me and let me sob into the small space where your shoulder meets your neck. Your grip is too hard, pressing into my bruises and crushing my injured ribs as though you are afraid that I might disappear any second, but I don't mind the discomfort, this is the best I've felt in three years. You're here, holding me, safe and solid and not sending me away, at least for now.

I've lost track of time again and I am shaking now, still mumbling countless (now muffled) apologies (“I don't think I can ever stop apologising, I don't think it'll ever be enough, but maybe, if you'll let me, I'll find some way, any way, to make it up to you somehow.”)

“Shh, it's alright, Sherlock.”

“Wait... did I say that out loud?”

You chuckle, tired and husky with tears, but also containing some real amusement. “Yeah, you did.”

“Oh.”

Your body heat begins to seep through my coat, sinks under my skin and finally settles in my chest (my heart), warming me from inside and all remaining tension leaves me. Whatever is going to happen, it's in your hands now, I am unable to process anything beyond the present. My fate is still up in the air, I'm still falling though the ground must be unbearably close now.

"You _bastard_.", you speak into my hair, close enough that it muffles your words and I wouldn't have it any other way because this way means that I can feel your warm breath on my ear, breath that means you're alive and safe. "You insane, reckless, stupid, pompous, _utter_ bastard."

"I'm so sorry, John. I suppose no one will ever believe me again when I say that I hate repeating myself, but really, there isn't anything else I could say now, is there?"

"I never believed that anyway. You're too much of a drama queen, you like the attention."

Now it's my turn to chuckle tiredly. "I take it I'm still talking out loud?"

"Yep. Bastard."

"I really am sorry, John, I know what I did to you was horrible and unforgivable and I don't expect you to forgive me, I couldn't, but I had to do what I did, I promise, if there had been any other option, I would've taken that, I didn't want to keep it a secret but I had to because I couldn't take the risk, John, I trust you, but I couldn't risk you giving anything away..."

"Sherlock."

I am no longer in control of which words leave my mouth at this point, and I doubt that I am making much sense anyway, but you're here, you haven't sent me away yet and that's all that matters. "...I know it might've worked but even the smallest hint would've been enough and I couldn't risk it, I just couldn't risk _you_..."

"Sherlock!"

"...because it's too important, _you're_ too important, so I couldn't risk losing you because I need you, John, I need you and I don't know what I'd do then because without you all of this, everything I do, am, wouldn't _matter_ anymore, it'd all be pointless without you, so I had to do what I did, had to let you think I was dead and I promise, if you let me, I'll explain it all to you, I'll explain how I did it and why..."

"Sherlock, slow down, breathe! You're hyperventilating!"

"...just please, John, please don't send me away, I don't want to have to leave you again, I'll do anything, just let me stay with you. I need you, John, I need you, I love you, _I love you..._ "

We both simultaneously gasp, realising at the same moment what I just accidentally said (Stupid!). Then you pull away, you stop holding me and suddenly it's so _cold_ again and the only thing that makes it bearable is that at least you're still holding my face in your hands. You're tilting it towards you, so I close my eyes because despite my curious nature, I really don't want to see what your reaction to my ill-advised confession is.

"Sherlock, look at me."

After all that I've done to you, how could I possibly refuse this? When I finally find the courage to open my eyes, your expression doesn't give anything away except that you seem to search mine for something and I can only hope that you'll find whatever it is. Apparently, you do, since your still teary eyes turn unexpectedly warm and you shake your head, a minuscule smile on your lips.

"Oh god, I _hate_ you."

On some level of consciousness, I can feel how I flinch, how my entire body goes tense, all I'm truly aware of is a pain that makes everything I've gone through over the last few years pale in comparison and if I felt broken earlier, when you punched me, I must surely be shattered into nothing but dust now. But as so often, I underestimated you because you are still holding onto me and now you're pulling me closer (I don't understand, your words and actions are contradictive and I am too unhinged to make sense of them, but closer to you is a good thing), your thumb gently caresses my cheekbone, our breaths mingle and then, finally, your lips touch mine and...

...

Quiet. My restless, churning mind is for once absolutely, blissfully quiet. For the first time since I can remember, all the thoughts spinning around, both in the forefront and background of my consciousness come to a sudden halt. There is nothing for me beyond the feeling of the chapped skin of your lips catching on mine, of the first hesitant but quickly bolder touch of your tongue against mine, beyond the taste of tea and coffee, bad canteen food and bitter Aspirin and _John_.

I have no idea how long we stay like this, time has lost all meaning or relevance, but eventually the need to breathe (stupid transport, breathing is _boring_ ) wins out. I allow myself a few gasps before chasing your lips again, the blissful quiet, the closeness and reassurance, the warmth and safety. This time, there's no hesitance in you and I respond in kind by instinct. This is perfection. This is better than any drug I have even tried and infinitely more addictive. I've never understood the appeal of kissing, I've had to engage in this a few times for the sake of a case, but the _messiness_ of it always sent a shiver of disgust down my spine, but god, I do see the appeal now. Another formidable example of the John-Watson-Effect.

This time I manage to open my eyes (which have closed at some point without my permission), and it is to see you smile fondly (Lovingly? Please, John...) at me. There's a sudden lightness in my chest that I identify as hope.

"You bastard."

"Please, John, please let me stay." If possible, the thought of you sending me away seems even more devastating now that I know what it feels like to kiss you.

Marvelously, you kiss me again, just briefly and with your lips remaining close, but no less blissfull for it.

"Well, trust me, Sherlock, if you even think about trying to leave me again, I _will_ kill you. In a very painful way. Doctor _and_ soldier, remember? Because if you do anything like this to me ever again, I..." Your voice breaks and a new tear is running down your cheek, but brave as you are, you are still smiling. "I.. I can't lose you again, Sherlock, I love you too much."

Hearing it shouldn't come as a surprise, after all, I figured it out years ago already, but that you still, after all this time... All I can do is stare dumbstruck at you while those words run in a loop through my mind, each mental repitition stoking the ember of hope, turning it into a wildfire, bright and warm and uncontrollable.

"You...?" There's no hiding the hope in my shaking voice. You let me dangle for a moment, before giving me another peck (This is one addiction I'll happily indulge in for the rest of my life, if you,  _please, please_ , let me).

"Yeah. You're a madman, you're reckless and despicable and pompous and insane. On the best days you irritate the hell out of me. You're an ignorant, arrogant, petty man-child. You're a pain in the arse and a horrible flatmate and an overall absolute _mess_ and I'm still mad enough at you that I really want to throw you off that fucking roof myself, but god help me, I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

I am beyond caring that another sob works intelf out of my throat because _John Watson loves me_ and everything is right in the world. I was wrong again. You caught me, I didn't hit the concrete and shatter. I never should've doubted you. I'm sorry, probably more sorry than you'll ever know. While I fall apart again, you pull yourself together (My perfect John.) and get up from where we're still crouched in the shards on the floor, but instead of letting go of me, you grab my hands and pull me with you.

"Come on, up you go. You look horrible, by the way. When was the last time you ate? Or slept? Wait, no, I don't even want to know."

I only manage a rueful nod as you steer me towards the sofa and the familiarity of finally being taken care of by you again feels like being wrapped in a thick, soft blanket, muffling the rest of the world besides you and me. Only now do I realise how tired I am. My knees give in and I collapse onto the sofa, watching you as you carefully examine my bruised cheek and then my bloodied knees (I am relieved to see that yours are fine, your jeans offered considerably better protection than my suit trousers), however, I cannot quite contain a small distressed sound escaping me as you make to get up (though I am too exhausted to be embarrassed). "Please don't leave me."

You kiss me again, gently (I'll never get tired of you doing this), sending a small stab of pure joy through me.

"I'll just get the first-aid kit, I'll be right back. I won't leave you or send you away. I'm still mad at you and it'll probably take me a while to forgive you, also, you still owe me an explaination and it'd better be a bloody good one, but we'll see about all that tomorrow. It'll be alright, Sherlock."

You smile as I whisper "I love you." in reply and peck my cheek before turning to go fetch the med-kit, looking back several times to reassure yourself that I'm really here and guilt for doing this to you overcomes me yet again.

I was wrong to do this to you. I was wrong to keep my continued existence a secret from you. I was also wrong to think you wouldn't catch me safely and to think myself incapable of being in love with you (In hindsight, it was so _obvious_.), but in those two instances, I am glad to have been wrong.

It's not alright yet. I'll still have to explain, I should probably talk to you about the gun in the drawer and the bullet and the note (once again, my once non-existent heart clenches painfully at that thought), you still haven't forgiven me and anyway I'm still convinced that I don't deserve your forgiveness. It's not alright yet, but it will be, you said so and you won't be wrong.

To me, that's enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, I'd eternally love you for any comments!!!!!


End file.
